


Hope the High Road

by unwhithered



Series: Padawan d'Artagnan & the Three Masters [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Do not repost, Gen, Jedi As Musketeers, Jedi as Found Family (Star Wars), Original Jedi Characters - Freeform, Star Wars AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwhithered/pseuds/unwhithered
Summary: A thud. A groan.“Come on now, get up. Again!”On the sidelines of the gymnasium Porthos winces in sympathy as he watches the young padawan drag himself to his feet, infinitesimally more slowly than the last time, and square off with Aramis. His chest heaves with effort and if one looks closely enough, his legs are shaking. The Knight, in comparison, has barely broken a sweat, smiling and laughing as he dances away from the boy’s first wild strike, speaking too quietly to be heard when they cross blades, twirling his lightsaber showily when they break apart once more. Toying with the padawan like a loth cat with its prey.“Now this is just getting cruel,” Porthos grumbles, watching his friend once again knock the padawan on his ass.Or, the story of how Padawan d'Artagnan ended up with three Masters and far more adventure than he bargained for, told in a series of interconnected one shots.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Series: Padawan d'Artagnan & the Three Masters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033224
Comments: 16
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It only took me a couple of years to get around to writing the sequel I promised. Should update once a week on weekends. I really suggest reading No Rest for the Weary first or you're going to be lost.
> 
> Title from Hope the High Road by Jason Isbell

A thud. A groan.

“Come on now, get up. Again!”

On the sidelines of the gymnasium Porthos winces in sympathy as he watches the young padawan drag himself to his feet, infinitesimally more slowly than the last time, and square off with Aramis. His chest heaves with effort and if one looks closely enough, his legs are shaking. The Knight, in comparison, has barely broken a sweat, smiling and laughing as he dances away from the boy’s first wild strike, speaking too quietly to be heard when they cross blades, twirling his lightsaber showily when they break apart once more. _Toying_ with the padawan like a loth cat with its prey.

“Now this is just getting cruel,” Porthos grumbles, watching his friend once again knock the padawan on his ass.

“Perhaps,” Athos agrees beside him. He casts Porthos a sidelong glance and shrugs one shoulder before returning his shrewd gaze to the next round. “But a necessary one.” Then, louder, “d’Artagnan, quit dropping your right shoulder! And _move_ , don’t just stand there like a brick.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Treville.”

“I can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult. Either way, there are worse things to be compared to than one of the finest fencing teachers in the Order.”

“A compliment, you arse.” Porthos nudges Athos with his shoulder and is pleased to receive a good natured jostle in return. His friend has been far too serious since - well, for a long time now, but his mood has only worsened in the week since the Council assigned him a half-trained padawan. “We’ll make a decent Master of you yet.”

Athos snorts. Rather than dignify that with a response, he rises and holds out his hand. “Halt. I’ve seen enough.”

Aramis’ smile widens, if such a thing is possible, his eyes bright with good humor as he leans over to offer d’Artagnan his hand. The boy ignores it, turning off his lightsaber and stubbornly pushing himself to his feet. _Ah, one that holds grudges_. Aramis claps him on the shoulder anyway. “Well done, young one. We’ll make a duelist of you in time. Now, _Master_ de la Fere, what do you say to giving me a real fight now that I’m all warmed up?”

The small crowd of initiates, padawans and knights that had left their own exercises to watch the sparring match murmurs. Anticipation echoes in the Force around them as Athos nods and casts aside first his belt, and then his tabard and overtunic at the edge of the mat. His remaining tunic hangs loosely from his shoulders and gaps at the neckline, baring a long stripe of pale chest and dark hair, as well as a glint of silver chain. He nods to d’Artagnan as they pass one another. “You did well enough. Now sit with Porthos and observe, perhaps you’ll learn something.”

“Don’t listen to him, boy.” Porthos thumps the bench next to himself in invitation and slings his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders when he takes the offered seat. “You held your own as well as any of us at your age.” It’s a lie, but a kind one. Porthos knows d’Artagnan has seen far too little kindness these past months. It pays off when d’Artagnan’s shoulders slowly relax beneath the weight of his arm. “Now, if it’ll make you feel better, we’re about to watch Aramis get trounced.”

“That does make me feel a little better.”

“You are about to watch more than a _trouncing_ ,” a deep voice interrupts them. 

All of the tension immediately returns to d’Artagnan’s body as he squirms out from beneath Porthos’ arm and bounces to his feet, bowing deeply despite his exhaustion. Porthos merely inclines his head. “Master Windu.” 

“Sit, padawan, you’ve earned it.” Once he’s obeyed Windu joins them on the low bleachers that surround the sparring mats. Before them, Athos activates his dual lightsabers with a _snap-hiss_ and begins to circle Aramis, looking for an opening. When he finds one the fight begins in earnest. “Watch la Fere’s feet,” Windu commands, leaning in a little to be heard over the murmur of voices surrounding them. “See how he’s always moving, always leading the fight where he wants it to go. Your new Master may be the finest duelist of his generation - you have much to learn from him.”

“ _May_ be?” Porthos grunts, indignant at the perceived slight.

“May,” Windu repeats, his eyes sparking with something like mischief. The Master of the Order was hardly as aloof and serious as he would like outsiders to believe. “I would bet Kenobi could give him a run for his money, if we could ever get them both in the Temple for long enough to arrange a match.”

Porthos grumbles under his breath, but doesn’t disagree. Their age mate _had_ killed the first Sith in a millennia, after all. Still… “I’ll take that bet.”

Windu only smirks and shakes his head, letting them lapse into silence as they watch the bout unfold. It’s less a fight than a dance, undertaken by two people who know each others’ steps by heart after a lifetime of training together - at least to Porthos’ eye. According to the hushed murmurs of surprise and delight from the still growing crowd of younglings and their keepers the whirl of bodies and blades, often moving so fast that they become a blur, is quite an impressive match. Even d’Artagnan, perpetually morose in their company, leans forward with interest when Aramis appears to have gained the upper hand, backing Athos into a corner of the mat.

Porthos, who has seen this exact scenario play out too many times to count, only huffs and hides his smile behind his hand when Athos neatly disarms Aramis with one blade and holds the other close enough to his throat to singe his perfectly groomed beard. “Do you yield?”

“I yield,” Aramis agrees, but his smirk spells mischief. “And I call in reinforcements for the rematch. What do you say, Porthos?”

Porthos’ answering grin is predatory. “I say we give the people a show.” Abandoning his seat beside d’Artagnan, along with his cloak and studded leather tunic, Porthos leaps into the arena. Aramis calls his ‘saber back into his hand in the same moment that Porthos activates his lightstaff, but Athos does not wait for them to make the first move. The fight is joined with a roar that rises simultaneously from three throats.

\-------

Aramis throws himself down on the floor with a dramatic sigh. The familiar smell of his shampoo fills the air as his hair fans out on the carpet, damp curls tightening as they dry. Porthos reaches across to tug at one teasingly, then winds it absently around his finger when Aramis’ tired smack fails to shove him away. Athos joins them a few moments later, setting his book aside and sliding out of his favorite arm chair to sit cross-legged by their heads. Aramis has a very unflattering view up his nose that he’s too tired to mention.

“Well, what do you think?” Aramis prompts when the silence stretches on too long.

“I think he fights like a member of the Agricorps,” Athos grumbles. He rubs his thumb over the crease between his brows and entirely fails to smooth is out. “Which is unsurprising given what I’ve learned about his former Master.”

Aramis hums agreement. “By every account a scholar and a diplomat, but hardly a warrior, according to my own sources. And I very much doubt Master Dell, may he find peace in the Force, shared your philosophical peculiarities.”

“Or yours, my heretical friend.”

Huffing in mock offense, Aramis bats at Athos, only to leave his hand hanging tangled where it catches in the other man’s wide sleeves. “There is room for many philosophies on the Force and relationships to the Code in a healthy Order. Or, there should be.”

“Hmmph.” Porthos tugs gently on Aramis’ curl again. “Don’t confuse the boy with your nonsense just yet. Bad enough that we’ve spent the week thumping him up and down the training grounds and humiliating him in front of his agemates.”

“You enjoyed the thumping as well as we did,” Aramis accuses.

Porthos, who cannot deny it, simply shakes his head. “Did ya at least come up with a plan for his training after all that torment?”

“Have you?”

“What happened to him being _your_ padawan and yours alone?” Porthos jabs back, the bite taken out of it by his little smile - visible mostly in the deepening of the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, well, that was a rash and thoughtless statement.” Athos clears his throat and tries very much to look as though he _isn’t_ admitting he was wrong. “Upon further reflection, I have realized he could benefit greatly from your tutelage and, as always, what’s mine is yours.”

Porthos’ laugh is a great, booming, joyful thing that fills Aramis’ small living room, joined by Aramis’ own chuckle. Athos smiles despite himself and leans into Porthos’ clap on his shoulder. For just a moment, all is well. They are together. They are home, in the familiar confines of Aramis’ quarters at the Temple, with his recessed shelves full of real paper books and the scent of night blooming flowers drifting in from his small balcony. They are whole.

Aramis breaks the moment by disentangling himself from Athos’ sleeve and rolling to his feet with an overdramatic groan. “I need a drink if we’re to pretend at being grown enough to train a padawan - and to ease these aches. Go easy next time, Athos, I always leave our sparring sessions shuffling and bent like Master Yoda.”

“If you had half the talent of Master Yoda you would leave in no pain at all.”

“You wound me, friend,” Aramis calls out from the kitchen. He reappears a moment later with three glasses and a bottle of dark liquor which he sets on the low table, folding himself down in the space between table and sofa before pouring a measure into each glass. “Alas, the Force saw fit to bless you with skill with the blade and I with brains. Now come, tell me how we’ll ensure our new padawan learns both.”

They join him, Porthos lounging on the couch behind Aramis in nothing but his undershirt and breeches, his bare feet kicked up on the arm rest. In a pool of the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows Athos can’t help but think Porthos looks like nothing so much as a large cat - utterly relaxed, but always ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Athos throws himself back into the armchair that might as well be his despite its place in Aramis’ quarters and accepts a glass that is noticeably fuller than the one Aramis passes to Porthos. 

It’s nearly the dinner hour, and Aramis has not missed the shake in his friend’s hands after a long day of sobriety. Athos lets his quiet gratitude bleed into the Force as he steadies himself enough to take a long drink before speaking. “We cannot take him into the field until his swordsmanship improves, that much is clear. Not on the kind of missions the Council assigns to us.”

“What kind might that be?” Porthos teases. “The kind that requires diplomacy at the end of a blade?”

“Yes, those. He’d be a liability at best.”

“I’m sure the Council will temporarily adjust your assignments to fit your padawan’s needs,” Aramis replies, trying to be the voice of reason. “In which case it’s only a matter of keeping you from going insane at treaty signings and diplomatic banquets. At least there’s plenty of wine at those sorts of things.”

Athos levels him with an icy look and doesn’t dignify his comments with a response. “His academics, at least, are acceptable. His midichlorian count is high-middling. And he’s only been a padawan three years. I suppose we have enough time to make something of him.”

“A ringing endorsement.” Porthos pours himself another round, then floats the bottle to Athos with the Force and pours him one too. “Keep talking about him like that when he can hear you and you’ll break him rather than build him up.”

“He’s already broken,” Athos murmurs, looking into the swirling amber liquor in his glass. “His training bond was wide open when Dell died. It’s a miracle he didn’t go insane.” He knocks the drink back and summons the bottle himself for another. “He’s already broken.”

“Yes, well…” Aramis sighs, the hollowness in his chest leaking into the Force around them. Some would say it’s a failing for a Jedi to feel so much, to bleed his pain and his joy and his love out into the Force like a wound - but those beings don’t know Aramis. And they don’t know Porthos, who reaches out and tugs on the edge of that great yawning sadness until it loosens, until in the space between breaths Aramis releases it fully into the Force and the shadow passes from the room. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re good at piecing broken things back together, isn’t it? Now pour me another drink, dear Athos.”

So he does, with a frivolous use of the Force that would have made his Master hide a giggle behind her frown, and he lets Porthos pull on the edge of that well-worn sadness until it too fades away into the background thrum of life on Coruscant. Athos is just drunk enough to think that it’s gotten a little harder to release the negative into the Force since last time they lingered on their home planet - as though there’s a haze of darkness trying to push it back into him - and dismiss it in the same moment.

\--------

“I think we ought to go back to the basics,” Master la Fere declares on the twentieth day of d’Artagnan’s apprenticeship to him. 

The boy’s bruised ribs protest his badly hidden sigh of relief, but not so much as his pride protests the feeling itself. Not so long ago d’Artagnan had fancied himself a very fine swordsman for his age and more than capable of keeping up with his Master on missions. That was, of course, before the mission on Da’nat proved his skills were inadequate to save Master Dell. And before his new Master and his odd friends spent an entire ten day beating him from one end of the training rooms to the other and back, quizzing him between bouts and feats of athleticism on everything from galactic history to the theory of the blade to the nuances of the Jedi Code. 

d’Artagnan does not know what he is anymore, aside from very tired and very glad to hear that this day will not be a repeat of the last. He slumps over the breakfast table in la Fere’s quarters - _their_ quarters, now, though they do not feel like home - and stares into a cup of the jet fuel his Master calls caf. Across from him, Knight Aramis sips at a mug he has heavily diluted with cream and sugar, while Knight du Vallon devours what must be a dozen eggs on his own, occasionally shoving pieces of omelet at Master la Fere and glowering until he eats them. They make an odd trio, nearly inseparable outside of sleep - and sometimes it seems not even then - and seemingly determined to train him together despite the Code’s dictate of one padawan, one master. d’Artagnan would call it heresy if so many members of the Council had not stopped into their training sessions to offer words of advice or simply observe.

“Your footwork is terrible,” Master la Fere finally continues, after drinking what must be half the pot of caf. “We’ll start there.”

“Athos!” Knight Aramis _tsks_ under his breath. “How often must I tell you, criticism is best given in the company of compliments? Praise, criticize, praise, or it doesn’t stick!”

Master la Fere pins him with a withering gaze, only to relent a moment later in the face of Aramis’ completely undisturbed expression. They seem to have an entire conversation with their eyebrows and the twitch at the corner of Aramis’ mouth before both abruptly focusing their gazes on d’Artagnan. He shifts uncomfortably under their piercing stares. 

“Your blade handling is adequate for your age, but your footwork is terrible,” Master la Fere repeats with a sigh. “Your academic performance, at least, is more pleasing, though we’ll need to discuss your next course of study.”

Knight Aramis groans dramatically. “My dear Athos, we really must work on your idea of a compliment. Ignore him, d’Artagnan. It’s no fault of yours that the Council has assigned you to a very different type of Master. You’re improving by leaps and bounds already. Though,” he pauses, a slow smirk forming on his lips, “your footwork really _is_ quite terrible.”

“Hush, you,” Knight du Vallon rumbles. It’s his first contribution to the conversation since he let himself in with a bag under one arm and began cooking breakfast in their barren kitchen, as he does nearly every morning. Sometimes d’Artagnan thinks he’s cooking in his sleep. “You’re doin’ fine, d’Ar. We’ll have you up to speed in no time.”

\--------

 _The basics_ are nearly as painful, though far less humiliating, than the inseparable trio taking turns thrashing d’Artagnan in single combat. Every morning begins before dawn with a light breakfast, followed by stretching in their sparsely furnished sitting room and a run that varies in length and swiftness depending on his Master’s mood - and on how much the man had to drink the night before, after he believed d’Artagnan to be safely asleep. Some mornings are spent entirely on running; up and down the endless flights of stairs in the interior of the Temple, over obstacle courses that become increasingly more complex as time goes on, in strange sideways hops and jumps and criss-crossing patterns that leave his legs shaking on the way to his afternoon seminars. Others are spent drilling lightsaber forms, blindfolded and without the saber, focusing on the placement of his feet, the movement of his body, and the way that the Force guides him.

d’Artagnan is no less covered in bumps and bruises for the lack of combat. On the fifth day he collapses at the top of a spiral staircase that leads up from dusty, forgotten sublevels to the floor their apartments are on. He lands right at his Master’s feet, where Athos is sharing an apple with Aramis, who slices pieces off of the whole with a vibroblade as if it was a kitchen knife. d’Artagnan has no energy left to wonder at the strangeness of these men. He thinks, perhaps, that’s their strategy - keep him too exhausted to think. Too exhausted to plunge back into the spiral of grief that had been so close to consuming him before Master la Fere pulled him out of it, with warm hands and murmured words he can’t remember and a presence that _glowed_ in the Force. 

Sometimes - times like now, when Master la Fere is looking down his nose at the sweaty heap of his padawan as if he were something distasteful on the pavement - d’Artagnan wonders if he’s remembering it correctly. He rolls onto his back with a groan, squinting up at the men above him.

“Can we go back to the part where you kicked my ass up and down the gym in front of all of my agemates and half the Temple? I liked that better.”

For a moment they just stare at him. Then Aramis fails to stifle a snort, which turns into an infectious laugh as he claps Master la Fere on the shoulder. “I’ve finally decided,” he announces, as if they have all been waiting on his pronouncement. Aramis, he has discovered, has a way of finding an audience for himself everywhere and anywhere. “I like this one!”

Even Athos cracks a smile at that, though it only uses half his mouth. “Yes, I think he’ll do,” he replies, dry as the deserts of Tatooine, and reaches down to offer d’Artagnan a hand up. “Which is good, because we’re stuck with him. Now, I think he can manage one more lap, don’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan begins to settle into the rhythm of his new life, not without some bumps along the way, and to question his strange new Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussion & portrayal of drinking/drunkenness/implied alcoholism.
> 
> I wrote most of this chapter early a year and a half ago, I think? I've been fighting with the rest of it all week.

Powdered duracrete rains down from above, the air thick with it already, making d’Artagnan’s eyes sting and his lungs tighten painfully. Blaster fire pits the floor at his feet and bounces off of the wall behind him as he slides the last foot to take cover behind a pillar, where Aramis is already huddled. The Knight is fiddling with a blaster rifle he must have picked off of one of their attackers, checking its charge. Strangely, it looks almost as natural in his hands as a lightsaber.

“You know,” d’Artagnan pants, shaking his shaggy hair from his eyes. Athos had said the traditional padawan’s cut for humans made him stand out like a sore thumb in any crowd, and he would have to grow it out to come along on their more discreet missions. He’s still not used to it. “I have been shot at more often these past four months with Master Athos than in my entire apprenticeship. In fact, I can’t remember ever being shot at before Da’nat.”

“Then we must be doing something right.” The grin Aramis turns on him is feral, a light blazing in his eyes that d’Artagnan has only seen when Aramis is flirting or fighting. It is...unbecoming of a Jedi, yet he finds himself smiling back. Aramis’ moods are infectious. “How else are you meant to learn to use that blade? Now, you head for Athos. I’ll cover you.”

Before d’Artagnan can open his mouth to protest, Aramis is stepping out of cover and raising the blaster. He shoots as well as he duels, it seems, for d’Artagnan hears three cries of pain for three shots taken, and feels two life forces snuff out.

“d’Artagnan, go!”

Shaken out of his shock, d’Artagnan reignites his lightsaber and makes a run for the next pillar, deflecting a blaster bolt without looking. A pause, a few gasps for breath, and he darts out of hiding once more, stumbling down a short set of stairs while spinning his blade to bounce bolts back at their shooters. Several even make contact, though d’Artagnan hardly notices, his hand outstretched to send two men tumbling down the steps. He feels a similar surge and glances back in time to see a handful of beings bounce off of the far wall and slump limply to the floor, and a mildly singed Aramis burst out of hiding.

“Run, you fool,” Aramis snaps, grabbing the back of d’Artagnan’s tunic and shoving him around a corner. There they find Athos and Porthos, back to back and surrounded - by the living, the dead, and those who are hovering in the gray space between.

Aramis fires off five shots, taking down two women and wounding a man, before using the presumably dead blaster to crack another over the head and igniting his lightsaber.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos shouts over the hum of his two blades and the clamor of battle. “Are you alright?”

“I am in one piece,” d’Artagnan replies, thinking privately that there is nothing alright about this day. That nothing has been alright since the day his Master died. Dismissing the thought as too dramatic, he puts all of his focus into fighting his way to his new Master’s side, trying not to breathe too deeply of the dust filled, ozone scented air.

“Where do these blokes keep coming from?” Porthos huffs. He’s bleeding from the forehead, not far from the scar slashing across his eye, and a rusty spot is blooming on his right leg, yet he doesn’t so much as limp as he steps forward to meet a vibroblade that otherwise would have impacted Aramis’ back.

d’Artagnan’s arms are beginning to burn from the effort of keeping his lightsaber in constant motion, and sweat is half-blinding him. He does not know how his Master and his Master’s friends fight on as if the battle has only just begun, when they have been trying to cut their way out of this hellish temple for the better part of an afternoon - and afternoons on this planet are long. Just when he is starting to give up hope - not for the first time, on a mission with his new Master - the flow of armed men and women from the depths of the temple begins to slow, until there seem to be no more reinforcements coming, and the last few facing off against them turn tail and run.

Aramis starts to pursue, his saber still raised, only to be stopped by Athos’ hand on his arm. “Let them go, Aramis,” Athos says, only slightly out of breath. He clips both of his sabers to his hip and mops sweat from his eyes with the broad sleeve of his dark brown tunic. “We have all the proof we need of their sentient sacrifices, their child slaves. The locals can do the rest. We are done here.”

“Cowards,” Aramis huffs, glowering in the direction their enemies fled. “I hate to let them go.”

“They will not remain free for long, my friend. For now we must take care of our own. d’Artagnan, are you injured?”

“No, Master,” d’Artagnan replies, before actually taking stock of himself. One of his arms hurts more than the other, and he finds that his sleeve is in tatters and an ugly blaster burn wraps around his bicep. Before he can correct himself, Aramis is speaking again.

“I hope they do not remain  _ breathing _ for long, dear Athos. To share oxygen with sentients such as those seems a waste.”

It is hardly a Jedi like thing to say. In fact, the statement goes against everything d’Artagnan has been taught. Jedi are peacekeepers, defenders of the greater good - yes, sometimes that involves shedding blood, even ending lives, in defense of the helpless and to uphold the laws of the Republic. But Jedi do not seek vengeance. They do not crave bloodshed for its own sake. And they are not meant to take lives with the ease these three men do, he is sure of it. 

Swallowing down a sick feeling, d’Artagnan interrupts before worse can be said. “I was mistaken, Master. I am wounded after all.”

“Of course you are.” Athos sighs, rubbing his face and leaving behind a streak of blood - someone else’s, most likely, because he appears unhurt. “Can you make it back to the ship?”

“I think so, Master,” d’Artagnan replies, gently touching the edge of his wound and pulling away with a hiss. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”

“Then let’s go, before our enemy has time to return with reinforcements. Aramis will see to you there.”

“Oh, fuck me and my great gaping wounds, then,” Porthos grumbles from where he’s leaning against one of the blood red walls. The temple’s interior decoration is all rather off putting - comes with the territory, d’Artagnan supposes, when you’re running a cult that sacrifices children. 

“I have not forgotten you.” Rolling his eyes, Athos crosses over to offer Porthos his shoulder to lean on, then gestures for d’Artagnan and Aramis to lead the way out. 

\----------------

Porthos has little talent for meditation, or at least the forms of it that involve sitting still. The less traditional moving forms, which Master Treville insisted on teaching him when his inability to sit down and shut up drove the poor man to distraction, are more manageable, but impossible with the thick mass of bandages currently holding his leg immobile. Groaning quietly, he adjusts himself on his narrow bunk and wishes once again that he was any good at healing trances.

Beside him on the floor, his head tipped back against the thin mattress, Aramis is meditating easily, no doubt recovering some of the energy that he expended on patching Porthos and d’Artagnan up. His ass will be numb from the cold metal floor by the time he stirs, and he’ll doubtless have a crick in his neck that he’ll moan about for hours - or until Porthos massages it out, like he always does. Only seems fair given how often Aramis uses his magic healing hands to put the lot of them back together again.

With another groan, Porthos swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits. He briefly rests a hand on the top of Aramis’ head, gently combing his fingers through his overgrown, tangled mess of curls. Aramis hums quietly in return, tipping his head into Porthos’ hand without ever really rising out of his meditative state. It speaks to a lifetime of companionship, living in each other’s pockets in the creche and spending every spare moment together as padawans, that it causes so little disturbance.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs, before climbing carefully to his feet and limping down the short hall to take a piss. After, he detours into the tiny on board kitchen in search of a mug of caf, and finds Athos at the two seat table - unconscious, with an empty bottle of cheap whiskey beside him and a trail of drool on his chin. When he reaches out in the Force, Athos feels drunk and dead to the world, but not dangerously so. Not like the early days, when they were first knighted and he and Aramis would trade off nights of sitting beside Athos in some dingy bar, watching him give himself alcohol poisoning and then stepping in to burn the booze out of his system before it did any permanent damage.

That makes him a problem for later, Porthos decides, quietly shutting the door behind him. He’s too restless to return to his bunk, instead finds his feet leading him to the cockpit, where he finds Athos’ padawan -  _ their  _ padawan, for all purposes - sitting in the pilot’s chair, his knees hugged to his chest as he stares out the viewscreen. He looks...small, with all of his lanky teenage limbs folded up like that. Young. 

Force, was Porthos ever really that young? Were Aramis and  _ Athos _ ? Unscarred, smooth skinned, with no lines around their eyes and mouths? 

Perhaps, a lifetime ago. ( _ It’s only been a decade. _ )

Letting out a sigh, Porthos drops heavily into the co-pilot’s chair and stretches his injured leg out in front of himself. “This thing pilots itself, y’know. No need for you to keep watch.”

“One of you always does,” d’Artagnan points out without looking away from the stars flashing past. 

“Habits of the old and paranoid,” Porthos replies with a shrug. A momentary burst of pain, a muffled grunt, and he manages to prop his heel up on the console. A rusty red stain is spreading through the stark white bandage Aramis wrapped around his leg earlier. Also a problem for later. 

“Habits.” d’Artagnan lets out a huff that could be either a laugh or a sigh - Porthos can’t be sure, even after glancing at his profile. “And my Master- does he always make a habit of…?” The slight tip of his head toward the hall fills in the rest.

“Drinking?” 

d’Artagnan grunts confirmation, and Porthos stalls by taking a long sip from his mug of caf. Force, he had just thought the boy was beginning to fit in. “Mm-hmm. Dries himself out for missions, o’course, but he’s a drunk on his own time. Don’t worry, d’Artagnan. He’s never too far gone to sober himself up with the Force, unless me or ‘Mis is there to do it for him.”

“It’s not that I worry about it! It’s - it’s - isn’t it against the code? To drink like that, to lose control of yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? The Code is clear! There is no emotion, or passion, or chaos - only the Force. Yet Athos drinks himself unconscious, and I can feel something lurking just behind his shields. Emotions that are beyond control. Why did the Council assign me to a man who cannot follow our Code?”

“You’d have to ask them that.” Gently lowering his leg back to the floor, Porthos turns until he can look at d’Artagnan, staring in silence until the boy turns his head and returns Porthos’ gaze. “All I can tell you is life is far more complicated than any book of rules, an’ there’s always more than one way to read ‘em. Aramis has a few things to say about Odan-Urr’s modifications to the Code.

“Me, I think you’d be hard pressed to find a soul in this galaxy that can follow all of the tenets of the Code, all the time. Emotions are what make us  _ people _ , what let us feel the compassion we must show to the galaxy. Passion is what dedicates us to bringing peace and justice to the galaxy. Right now you yourself are a great quivering ball of teenage emotions and worry ‘bout your strange new Master. Athos feels more than most and drinks to forget it, but it’s his passion for our Code and our Order that keep him grounded in the light. You watch how hard he works to uphold our Order and you’ll learn far more about being a Jedi than from a Master who makes it look easy.”

There’s a long pause in which d’Artagnan looks away, staring blankly out the window while Porthos watches his profile. “Master Dell made it look easy,” he finally says. “I learned much from him. I’m not sure what I’m learning from Master la Fere, other than to lead with my lightsaber.”

“I meant no insult to Master Dell,” Porthos murmurs, wishing it was Aramis having this conversation rather than him. “An’ I’d appreciate if you don’t insult my friend. I only meant that there are many kinds of Jedi. Warriors and scholars and healers and farmers an’ more. Ones who never struggle with their duty, never question our Code, and ones who struggle with it every day an’ still keep goin’. You have to decide for yourself what kind you’ll be, but before you do, you’ll learn more’n enough from Athos. Drunk or sober.”

“I hope you’re right.” d’Artagnan huffs. He’s still a child, Porthos reminds himself. A child dealing with immeasurable loss, a Master with little in common with his previous one, and missions more dangerous than he has ever encountered before. He is entitled to his feelings. And he’ll come around.

“I am. Now, anyone ever taught you how to play Sabacc?”

“No.”

“Good.” Porthos grins, reaching for the inside pocket of his robe that always contains a deck of cards. Idle hands and idle minds make for trouble. “I’ll teach you all the best tricks.”

“You’ll teach him how to cheat, you mean,” Athos drawls from the doorway. Porthos wonders how much of their conversation he overhead - enough, apparently, to sober himself up before joining them, though the scent of alcohol still clings to him when he leans on the back of Porthos’ chair. “Deal me in. I’ll keep you honest.”

\---------

Porthos shuffles back to the bunk room after a few hands, grumbling that it’s no fun to play when he’s too tired to bluff, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan sitting on the floor watching each other over a deck of cards. Before long Athos sighs and runs one hand over his face, tugging on the ends of his beard. It’s in desperate need of a trim.

“In future,” he says slowly, weighing each word. It has not escaped him that Porthos and Aramis have done the lion’s share of communicating with their padawan about everything outside of the strict bounds of his education. “I would appreciate it if you would come to me directly with your concerns. I know I am not the easiest man to talk to, but I promise you this - I will always make time to hear you out, and answer you as honestly as you can.”

d’Artagnan juts his chin out stubbornly and meets his eyes, but does not speak.

“It sounds as though you have a problem with my drinking.”

The boy pales. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” Athos tries to smile and finds that only half of his mouth complies, a sad attempt at reassurance. “Porthos is correct. I struggle with the Code, I have struggled with the Light, but I know my duty and I would never endanger you or our mission to fuel my habit.”

“I don’t understand,” d’Artagnan admits, his gaze dropping back to the cards between them. He fidgets with his hands when he’s nervous, picking at his nails until they peel, a habit Athos makes a note to break him of later. Negotiators are of little use when they have such easy tells. “You drink, you have attachments - yet the Council trusts you, and...and you pulled me back from that abyss after Master Dell died. You kept me sane. I do not understand you at all.”

“It is not for a Padawan to understand his Master, only to learn from him.” Yes, that sounds like something his own Master might have said, once upon a time. It would have sounded wiser in her voice. “But...as I kept you sane, Aramis and Porthos once kept me sane as well. They are…” He pauses, turning a card over in his hand. The edges are worn, the art beginning to fade. Aramis gifted this pack to Porthos when they were still padawans, and if he focuses hard enough he can feel the faintest memory of Porthos trapped within it, as calm as a deep lake and as cheerful as a burbling creek. “They are the other halves of me. The better halves. I love them with all my heart, and I would die for them. But I love the Republic and what it stands for more. Just as I would sacrifice my own life in the line of duty, I will always choose the greater good over their individual lives, if at times only because they would never forgive me if I did anything less. I know that they would do the same. To choose duty over what we hold dear,  _ that  _ is the difference between attachment and unselfish love - the difference between falling, and following the Code.”

“That does not explain the drinking,” d’Artagnan points out stubbornly. It surprises a laugh from Athos. At least he is straightforward.

“No. I am not prepared to bare my soul to you just yet, Padawan. But I swear on the Force and on the lives of my dearest friends, should my drinking ever endanger you or our mission, it will stop immediately. Does that satisfy you?”

“No. But I accept it, Master.”

Athos inclines his head in understanding. They have a long way to go before they understand each other, he thinks, but perhaps they will one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://unwhithered.tumblr.com/). I've written lots of short prompt fic set in this verse that will probably never make it into the main thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Aramis take on a mission. Athos and d'Artagnan stay at the Temple to train. No one is happy about the situation.

Several things become obvious to Aramis about d’Artagnan in the course of his first year with them. One, he is as stubborn as a brain damaged bantha. Two, he’s slow on the uptake but too clever for anyone’s good once he’s paying attention. Three, his hands were built to hold a blade.

He would have been wasted as a diplomat. Aramis will never tell him this, of course, but it becomes more obvious with every passing day. And with every passing day his smiles come easier, his laughter quicker, his clever retorts to their teasing less stilted. Aramis realizes one day, on a muddy little planet of no particular significance, that he misses d’Artagnan’s presence on this mission nearly as much as Athos’, and that the boy has been with them for a standard year. It feels like less and more all at once. He is still so young, and yet how were they ever without him?

“If we survive this,” he whispers to Porthos as they creep through the deserted alleys of a sprawling refugee settlement. They are chasing little more than rumors of arms dealing and shipments of illegal explosives in Myrra - a mission to gather information for the Republic, not to make arrests or attempt to alleviate the misery all around them in this encampment. Of course this means they have already been shot at twice tonight. “We should throw him a party.”

“A party?” Porthos glances cautiously around the next corner only to duck back as a ragtag group passes through the next street. A curl has escaped from the scarf tied tightly over his hair, frizzing in the late night humidity. Aramis’ fingers twitch with the desire to tug on it when Porthos rolls his eyes at him. 

“To commemorate a year as our Padawan.” As another party approaches, Porthos flicks his gaze upwards. Aramis takes the hint and leaps lightly onto the corrugated metal roof of the nearest slapdash shelter, Porthos only a step behind and just as light on his feet despite their considerable weight difference. Together they huddle in the shadow of the chimney, watching small groups swagger past with lanterns and blasters in their hands and speaking quietly all the while. “His birthday’s coming up, too. We’ll roll it all into one.”

“These are patrols. They’re too organized,” Porthos rumbles at his back. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, yes. This is clearly not the backwater operation we were led to believe. But do you like the idea of a party?”

“A party to mark a year since his last Master died, Aramis? No, I don’t like that.”

“Oh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. C’mon, way’s clear until the next round in half an hour.”

Porthos flashes a smile, his teeth bright white in the light of the moon, and drops back onto the muddy ground. “That’s what you’ve got me for. Now, if you were a criminal, where would you go hidin’ a great big pile o’ explosives around here?”

“That depends,” Aramis replies, tipping his head in mock consideration. “Am I a criminal mastermind or criminally stupid?” Catching the mischievous look on Porthos’ face as they turn a corner, Aramis narrows his eyes. “Don’t you say it. Either way, the catacombs.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anythin’, did I?” Porthos chuckles softly, ignoring the hollow eyes peeking at them out of glassless windows. 

\-----

The longer they search, the more the back of Porthos’ neck prickles uncomfortably with the unsettling feeling of being watched or maybe just with guilt. What little he remembers of his childhood before the Jedi took place in a slum very much like this and yet half the galaxy away, and he wishes - oh, he wishes a thousand things, but mostly he wishes that being a Jedi meant saving these people like Master Treville had saved him. But wishes are for children, and Jedi serve the needs of the Republic. And what the Republic needs is to find out where the weapons shooting up the mid rim have been coming from. Not that the Jedi or the Senate’s civilian investigators have had much luck these past years.

Porthos shakes the feeling off and peers down another alley. “Gotta be an entrance around here somewhere.”

Reaching out into the Force, he tunes out the hunger and despair of the sentient beings around him and feels through the smaller things - the native animals squeaking and skittering in the shadows, the web of energy running like an electric current between every living thing. With his eyes half-shut he can tell where all the buildings within a square mile are, the path that water - filthy and teeming with life - takes through the gutters, that there’s heavy rain and a lightning storm on the horizon, that the jungle is creeping in at the edges of the camp. And way down in a dead-end alley, something damp and dark and older than any of the ramshackle durasteel shelters around them, descending deep into the ground. He maps the route there in his head, pushes it down his bond to Aramis.

By the time they locate the mouth of the correct alley it’s pissing down rain, not quite hard enough yet to wipe away the heavy boot prints in the mud - far too many to be going in and out of a dead end. Following the tracks leads them to a place where dirt and old brick have crumbled away to reveal the forgotten tunnels that run beneath most of the city. As thunder rumbles overhead, Porthos eyes the hole in the ground uneasily.

“At least we don’t have to worry about lightning underground,” Aramis says, trying for cheer and just missing. Raindrops roll off the edges of his wide-brimmed hat and turn the synthleather of his tunics shiny in the dim light. At first glance he looks more like one of the criminals they’re hunting than a Jedi, but the lightsaber hanging at his belt is unmistakable. 

“Might have to worry about flooding.” Porthos kicks a stone into the hole and listens to it drop. No water at the bottom - yet - and the way down isn’t steep.

“We could wait until it stops raining?” Aramis suggests, eying the sky. 

“Not gonna stop anytime soon.”

“Well, here’s hoping we don’t drown.” Aramis picks his way to the edge, feeling out the terrain in the dark, and begins the descent underground. Porthos glances at the sky, shrugs, and follows him.

“You know,” Aramis says dryly once they’ve reached the bottom, sounding an awful lot like Athos. The light of his ‘saber casts an eerie purple glow on everything around them and doesn’t quite reach the walls on each side. “The locals say the catacombs are haunted.”

Porthos snorts in amusement as he ignites one end of his own saber and crouches to inspect the tracks leading away from the entrance. The rainfall is rolling down a slope so subtle he might not have noticed it otherwise, and the muddy boot prints only lead down one fork where the tunnel splits a few feet ahead of him. “You believe in ghosts now, ‘Mis?”

“Ghosts, no. But echoes in the Force are very real, and those who know little of the Force easily confuse one for the other.” Aramis hums thoughtfully as he steps forward to light the way. “I’ve never seen one, personally, but it would be interesting.”

Porthos’ grunt in reply is neither encouraging nor dismissive. He’s spent decades listening to Aramis work through his thoughts aloud and knows by now when Aramis expects a reply and when he’s simply talking to himself. This is the latter, for now, and it’s harmless - one of them is sure to sense anyone else in the catacombs long before they’re within hearing range.

“There’s a high enough concentration of the Force on this planet that it’s possible…” They reach another fork, this time with tracks leading down both tunnels. In silent agreement they follow the one with the more recently disturbed earth. 

The deeper they go, passing side-tunnels and dead ends, the more unsettled Porthos feels. Aramis continues to murmur to himself about Force nexuses and echoes, but he feels it too. Something dark and oily in the Force that slips away every time Porthos reaches out for it. By the time they reach a five way intersection of tunnels he’s sure it’s not another Force user. It feels almost like a warning.  _ Stay away, this place is not for you _ .

Too bad they’ve never been very good at listening to warnings.

Porthos touches the damp wall of the tunnel, feeling through networks of fungi that grow in the dark and skittering rodent colonies until he butts up against something electric, not truly alive but full of enough energy to hum in the Force anyway, circuits that buzz with power that could light up a city hidden down here in the deep darkness where no one is meant to be.

“This way,” he says, leading the way down the right hand tunnel. Several inches of water splash around his boots with every step, making the uneven floor slick and treacherous in the dim light of their ‘sabers, though they long ago passed too deep to hear the rain still falling on the planet’s surface.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Aramis murmurs as they follow the tunnel’s twists and turns, apparently no longer distracted by the waning potential of stumbling onto a Force echo. “There haven’t been any guard patrols since we passed beneath the surface.”

_ No need _ , Porthos thinks loudly. He finds himself disliking the echo of their voices on the damp walls.  _ Most who come down here without a map probably don’t make it back up. We sure as hell wouldn’t, without the Force _ .

_ Perhaps _ , Aramis replies in kind.  _ But there are no vehicle tracks either. If they’re transporting weapons in and out of the catacombs, it’s not by this route. Not in any amount large enough to matter. _

_ This isn’t the only entrance to the catacombs, you know _ .

_ I know. It still feels rather like a trap _ .

_ Best to spring it and get it over with then _ . Porthos’ teeth flash in a quick smile over his shoulder, yellowed by the glow of his lightsaber. 

Aramis huffs. They turn several more corners. And then the ground, perfectly solid beneath Porthos’ feet when he first steps on it, simply disappears. He falls with a shout that’s too late to warn Aramis, plunging into complete darkness as they both extinguish their lightsabers for fear of slicing into each other while tumbling ass over teakettle. Clawing for a handhold on the wall he keeps bouncing off of doesn’t slow Porthos’ descent, only succeeds at tearing his nails, and his mind goes fuzzy every time he reaches for the Force to stop himself.

Force blockers. 

They knew Jedi were coming. It’s Porthos’ last thought before he hits the bottom with a splash and loses consciousness.

\------

Athos pulls the good whiskey down off of its shelf with the Force, but pours two measures of it by hand. His hands don’t shake, though it’s nearing dinner hour and it’s his first drink of the day. He tries to take some pride in that even if pridefulness is not the Jedi way.

“Here, Master.” He pushes one of the glasses across his small kitchen table to the man lounging in a chair on the other side and drops into his own seat heavily.

“You’ve a padawan of your own now, boy,” Master Treville replies, amusement in the subtle curve of his mouth and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I hardly think you need to call me Master anymore.”

“Perhaps not.” Athos shrugs, sips his whiskey to hide a smirk of his own. “Master.”

Trevile sighs and waves his hand dismissively, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like  _ stubborn children _ into his drink. Athos uses the moment to study the man across from him. It isn’t often that they get to see each other, these past few years - Treville is taking his turn in one of the rotating seats on the High Council, and Athos and his brothers take every assignment they can get away from Coruscant. Only in recent months, since d’Artagnan’s training has forced Athos to remain in the Temple for longer periods of time, have they had the chance to reconnect. The years have done little to Treville, outside of the silver at his temples and the deepened lines around his eyes and mouth.

It’s reassuring in a way, how little time has changed him since the day he swept a toddling Athos up in his arms and whisked him away to the Temple. 

“Speaking of which, when will this errant padawan of yours be home?”

“He’ll be back soon with dinner. Until then, tell me - have you heard from Porthos recently?”

“You know as well as I do that they’re in a communications blackout as long as they’re on Akiva. I haven’t heard from him  _ or _ Aramis since they made port.” Treville narrows his eyes and raises an eyebrow as he sets down his glass. Athos saw that same expression many times in his two years as Treville’s padawan and waits, impatiently as always, for the question that will follow - whatever it is. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a bad feeling, that’s all.”

“You have a very predictable bad feeling every time the three of you are separated,” Treville replies. “It’s more than that, or you wouldn’t have asked me about them.”

“If only bad things would stop happening every time we are separated, perhaps I would have better feelings about it.” Though it’s true, it’s also childish. The galaxy is vast and wild and full of greed and war and jealousy. Jedi walk into less than ideal situations every day - it’s a requirement of their position. They are not special simply because they have worse than average luck at being caught in the middle of disasters out of their own control. Athos deliberately mellows his presence in the Force in a silent apology and is relieved when Treville accepts it with a nod. “I have a very  _ specific _ bad feeling about Akiva. I see darkness there, and suffering. Every time I close my eyes I hear voices calling out for help.”

“Porthos and Aramis?”

“Theirs, and others.” Athos waves his right hand and the whiskey bottle floats over from the counter and tips to spill liquid amber into his glass, then Treville’s. He waits to be chastised for putting his talents to such a base use, but Treville onlys chuckles into his glass and takes another drink. They are nearly equals now, Athos supposes. It isn’t Treville’s job to police his behavior anymore. “We’ve chased this smuggling ring halfway across the galaxy these past years. Perhaps they’ve caught on.”

“You are not the only one in this Temple having dark dreams of late,” Treville murmurs. He rests his elbows on the table and rubs at his face with his free hand, suddenly looking much older than the man who was sitting across from Athos only moments ago. “If we dispatched Jedi to investigate every dark vision and evil dream these days there would be no one left in the Temple.”

Athos’ temper flares, a flash of anger that he buries just as quickly, his words coming out cool and controlled. “So I am to sit on my hands and hope to be wrong?”

“No, Athos, you are to remain in the Temple and help your padawan with his studies. The galaxy is changing and there is darkness all around us. Still, I cannot let you abandon your duties here to chase after shadows.”

“A duty I did not ask for!” Athos snaps, half rising to his feet. Being d’Artagnan’s Master has been a burden, if not the curse he had first expected. Most days it’s one he bears with no ill will - it’s not the boy’s fault the Council is, in their heavy handed way, seeking to use him as a lesson for Athos - but when that burden restrains him from assisting his brothers in their time of need… though it shames him, Athos must admit he is not a good enough man to feel anything but resentment and anger in that moment. “I am a Knight, not a teacher. I ought to be out there with them, not chained to the Temple minding a child at his lessons.”

That is, of course, the moment that the door to his apartment slides open with a hiss and d’Artagnan steps inside. The boy hesitates in the doorway, a stack of takeout boxes balanced precariously in his hands. There’s no chance he missed Athos’ last words.

Treville fixes Athos with his most disappointed stare as he sets his empty glass aside, the one that Athos is sure will make him feel like a misbehaving padawan until the day he dies. “And yet it is your duty all the same, and you will do it just as you always have.” He holds Athos’ gaze a moment longer before turning to d’Artagnan with a smile. “Come in, boy, before the food gets cold.”

Dinner is awkward, though not without its moments of levity. d’Artagnan has a quick wit and boundless curiosity, and Treville has enough stories of adventure and political intrigue to keep him distracted from the conversation he walked in on, at least until the old Master leaves. Athos pauses in the middle of clearing off the table, answering the question he can sense at the front of d’Artagnan’s mind before it can be asked.

“I did not mean what I said.”

d’Artagnan hums thoughtfully, his head bowed over the dishes in the sink. “I think you don’t want to have meant it,” he replies eventually. “But you did.”

“You’re too perceptive by half.” 

“Maybe. But I’m not a child. And I won’t be the chain that keeps you tethered to the Temple, unable to help your friends.” d’Artagnan flips the dish towel over his shoulder and turns to face Athos, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. “For one thing, they like me more than you do. So, when are we leaving to chase after them?”

“I like you just fine. It’s the concept of you that I resent.” 

“Ah, that makes me feel so much better,” d’Artagnan mumbles, in a dry tone that sounds suspiciously like Athos’ own.

Athos runs his fingers through the tangle of his hair - too long, because Aramis is the one who trims it when Athos can’t be bothered - and sighs. This child will be the death of him. “Pack a bag tonight, we’ll leave before dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten this chapter either three or four times. This is still only half of it. But I wanted to get something up since it's been what, over a month? Just to let y'all know this isn't abandoned and is still consuming an inordinate amount of my brainspace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as unwhithered, where you'll find lots of in progress scenes and prompt fills. Come talk to me!


End file.
